Monday, July 28, 2008


"Neither the heavens are humane nor is life above or below, or within me."
- Too Loud a Solitude by Bohumil Hrabal

My roof is leaking. It's always leaking. I cannot see its grey face and yet it keeps raining. I am always drenched and immune to the constant flow of water on the grey floor. But the floor of sponge has turned green, tired of soaking all the water. My feet squelch the water as it steps on a thriving habitat of fungi and lichen. I am woken from my slumber, when it stops raining on my shut eyelids. I ran out of mascara which is now mere lines on the spongy floor. One day the lines will dissolve and the eyes won't open.

My bed is white as sheets I don't wash. I never sleep alone on the steel mattress. A colony of dust mites survive along with me on the see-saw of a resting grave. Illusions of love making can be heard if I turn around alone in the dark, but the dust mites bear my load as one against a million never wins. Except Caesar, before Brutus stabbed his king and friendship was destined to be love followed by betrayal for generations to come. One day friends will dissolve in graves of grey stones and ashes of copper, eyes wide open, turning into dust without might.

My book is crying for cognition I cannot provide. Not yet. El Dorado, Moroccan binding, and whiskey and rye, all evaporate into grey vapours to enter my nervous system, exciting electric impulses traveling faster than light to stimulate the dark trenches of a fleshy brain, hoping to spread in my blood like a virus. But I stop the disease somewhere. I dream about the day a package of priceless books float down an abandoned boat for me to rescue and I spend an eternity and a day with them. Then I sit on a typewriter, with ribbons and oil. On the last night, the grey words will swell and dissolve as tears from the roof soak them, and the eyelids forget to flutter.